


Come in misery, where you can seem as old as your omens

by Anonymous



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, Complicated Relationships, Drabble, M/M, Rivals With Benefits, Songfic, in which I trash Red Bull subtly because I hate the way they've done Pierre and Alex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-12
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:15:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26965780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: And the mother we share will never keep your proud head from falling.Post-Eifel GP.
Relationships: Alexander Albon/Pierre Gasly
Comments: 2
Kudos: 39
Collections: Anonymous





	Come in misery, where you can seem as old as your omens

**Author's Note:**

> fully inspired by "the mother we share" by CHVRCHES particularly the title and summary lyrics and these:
> 
> _Into the night for once, we're the only ones left,  
>  I bet you even know, where we could go.  
> And when it all fucks up, you put your head in my hands,  
> It's a souvenir for when you go._
> 
> __  
> completely fiction, i in no way claim this is real. keep it here on ao3, folks.

Perhaps it's a combination of the stormy German sky and the slowly setting sun, but it's unnervingly dark when Alex sneaks into the near-empty hospitality suite right next door to Red Bull's own.

It's equally as dark in the driver's room he steps into up on the second floor, the only light coming from the windows and reflecting off the silvery metallic logos on Pierre's team kit, casting strange dancing shadows on his skin.

Alex feels like prey being sized up in the millisecond that their eyes meet.

There's not a moment's pause before Pierre's attached himself fully to Alex by the lips, kissing the air out of his lungs and muttering words in French that Alex doesn't understand but he thinks are either curses or prayers.

They're supposed to hate each other, supposed to feed a narrative of vindication and redemption and downfalls. When Alex zigs, Pierre zags. There is no congruent success in the ranks of Red Bull. There is no reality in anyone's mind but their own where this can happen.

"I'm sorry for the race," Alex whispers when they break apart, Pierre resting his forehead against the Thai's shoulder and panting.

"Least it wasn't me you took out," Pierre shrugs before diving in again, his usual sunny compassion far out of the window in Alex's presence. A twisted sort of pride fills him up when he remembers he's the one to get Pierre riled up like this.

Even still, the second time they break apart, Pierre looks calmer. Back to normal. No longer prickly with the devastation of someone doomed for second-best, but satisfied with what he's made of himself regardless of the hand dealt. Content with his life at current.

Strangely enough, Alex feels the same when he's with Pierre- less beat down, no longer damaged goods. Perhaps it's down to the special understanding only the family disappointments could share, even if he never felt the same with Dany.

Something about crashing into Pierre like this, with a body rather than a car, feels appropriate- even if their two shades of midnight blue only collide when someone's race falls apart.

There is no apologies nor sympathy, no love, but there's no anger between them, either. The serrated blade of competition Alex is so used to having held up to his neck and threatening every step of his life and career is missing; his mouth is still tingling from where Pierre's lips were connected to it, his jugular intact and pumping as much blood as it can to his ever dizzying brain.

Where Alex expects the sharp edge of his latest and greatest rival he sees a softness, blue irises glinting in the dark and warm hands reaching up to cup his face like it's an epiphany, like he's saying come back home, torna a casa, reviens à la maison, words in languages Alex can't understand or even begin to wrap his brain or tongue around but that he knows slip easily from the Frenchman's mouth. Italy, he means, AlphaTauri, the factory where Pierre took the parts of himself left for scrap in Milton Keynes and assembled them into something completely different.

Alex does not belong there. He does not know where he belongs at all.

He shakes his head, fighting back a tear that slips past eyelids that are squeezed shut, ignoring the tenderness of Pierre's touch as the pad of his thumb wipes it away.

Rivals. That's all they are.


End file.
